A Lit Torch to the Woodpile
by Breathing's Boring
Summary: Set directly after 8x21, Cas is banged up and goes to the batcave.


Castiel is getting blood on Dean's favorite couch and Dean doesn't give a shit. He quickly divests the angel of any clothing above the waist to assess the damage that lay underneath, Cas grunting in pain as dried blood fused to fabric pulls apart at his skin. Dean has often imagined snaking Castiel out of his holy tax accountant getup on this very couch, but not like this; never like this. After disappearing for a moment to the bathroom, Dean emerges with an armful of medical supplies: needles, thread, some sort of antiseptic, towels, and assorted pain meds. He pulls up one of the solid oak chairs from the long research table and pushes it up against the couch.

"Are you in pain?" Dean asks, threading the needle and making the first stitch. Cas tenses up slightly, but does not allow pain to cloud his expression. He is stubborn, Dean thinks; they are quite the pair.

"I'll live."

Dean threads another stitch through Castiel's stomach, closing the stretched gash left behind by extraction of the tablet. He pours some hydrogen peroxide over the wound, a far cry from the whiskey normally used to sterilize injuries on the road, and pulls the needle and thread through one more time before knotting it a few times and snipping it short.

Cas groans trying to sit himself upright, but Dean grabs hold of his shoulders and pushes him back down onto the bunker's couch. He can't even look Cas in the eye.

"So are you gonna tell me what the hell happened to you?" Dean finally asks.

"I was shot."

"Thanks for such an in depth story. I'm sure Metatron would eat it up." The comment was so heavily drenched in sarcasm that even Castiel could spot it clear as day.

"You're being defensive. Why are you being defensive?" Cas inquires quickly, a chill runs up Dean's back as he sees the similarities between this and the car ride conversation with Meg and a freshly crazy Castiel.

"I'm not being defensive. I'm- I just want to know what happened. It's not every day that your best friend gets shot. Okay, well for us it kind of is, but that's beside the point, man."

Instead of elaborating, Cas stares at Dean, gears inquisitively turning full speed in his head, mulling over the term of endearment. When he finally opens his mouth, he says one of the last things Dean expects.

"You shouldn't drive so fast."

"Excuse me?" Dean never lets anyone give him shit about his driving, even if they're an injured angel, which in hindsight he supposes might make him kind of a dick.

"I overshot the distance to you back seat."

"Sounds like your fault, not mine." Dean flashes his trademark Winchester grin.

"I was _shot_, Dean."

"You're still going on about that?" Instead of coming out harshly, Dean's tone becomes lighter and relieved, as if he's happy that the angel is well enough for his usual defiant snark, though creases of worry still line the corners of his eyes. A genuine smile forms on his lips as Cas glares at him.

"Why don't you rest up for a bit here before getting back to whatever the hell it is you're doing. You're still pretty banged up," Dean rises from the chair and clears his throat. His eyes shift left to right, unfocused and preoccupied. "I know you angels don't sleep, but if you just want to... hang out, Sam 'n me made up a room for you. It's right next door to mine- if you want it, I mean."

"Thank you."

A few moments of silence pass before Cas labors off the couch, pushing away Dean's helping hands, and follows the man out of the library and down the hall. They stop at an open door and Dean gestures inside. It is a room that houses only necessities. There is a bed, dresser, and desk, but on the bedside table is a sight that makes Castiel's heart stutter, a physical reaction normally inexperienced in his human vessel. A basic black frame contains a picture long forgotten of three men standing in front of a black 1967 Chevy Impala. A rare picture of Team Free Will. It was before the apocalypse, before everything had gone to hell, and Bobby had wanted the boys to have a real photo to look back on after they 'kicked Lucifer's scrawny ass'. Clearing his throat he mumbles, "This is your room. Night, Cas."

Castiel sits down on the bed atop the comfortable memory foam mattress and calls out to Dean before he leaves the doorway. Silence.

"I need you too, Dean."

Their eyes betray that they both know the three unspoken words that accompany his admission. Cas smiles to himself as Dean shuts the door: maybe they could fix this.


End file.
